good times

Just in from my third social event of the week - I've been out every night, I who rarely go out. Monday night, to a snazzy party with my old friend Ron. I had to search in my closet for pantyhose, it has been so long since I've worn them. But with my extensive second-hand wardrobe, I was able to cobble together a fancy look, all of it originally owned by someone else, including the sparkling garnet bracelet and jet necklace which belonged to my American grandmother. The party was at Planta, a trendy new vegetarian restaurant at Bay and Bloor, and though the party was not particularly brilliant, the wine was very good and the food was terrific, including a memorable hot dog made from carrots. Delicious. Seriously.

Yesterday, a meeting of the Canadian Creative Non-Fiction Collective about our conference, and then we retired to Hemingway's bar on Cumberland to meet with other members of our tribe. We are hoping to establish an on-going CNF group, even after the conference is over. We drank and ate and talked work - getting published, how we do what we do. Heartening. 

Though there was something that seriously depressed me for a while. I'd sent my memoir manuscript to an acquaintance at a publisher's, and in two and a half months had heard nothing. One of the other women who's on the conference committee confessed shyly that she'd sent a query to the same woman and had heard back that she wants to see the full manuscript. "How long did that take?" I asked, thinking, perhaps it takes this woman months to respond to everyone. "Two weeks," she beamed, and I knew that my chances were over. And today, finally, my acquaintance wrote to say about the ms., "It's good," but that for various reasons she can't take it on. 

I struggled with - what's the point? - for awhile today, particularly as it's November. Though I have to say, the weather has been wondrous for the past few days, warm for the season and sunny, biking weather. But rejection is always hard, no matter how many times it has happened before. And it has happened a lot. But then they REJECTED J.K. ROWLING TOO! I will keep reminding myself of that. 

Tonight, a fundraiser at CRC, the gorgeous new building in Regent Park where we hold our conversation group. The latest was this morning; a staff person guided us through aromatherapy - making our own moisturizing cream out of lavender and bergamot. We smelled eucalyptus too, and Negisti, who's from Eritrea, told us they boil the leaves there often. And then she told us that the prophet of her Pentecostal church has flown in and tomorrow, 7000 people, including she herself, are going to hear him speak in Tigrinya, their language. How would we ever know these things otherwise?

The fundraiser, to which I was invited as a volunteer rather than paying $65 for a ticket, was spectacular - they transformed the main room with food stations every ten paces, many kinds of ethnic food and oysters, wine and beer, and rock music. I got to drink, eat, and dance, which means I was a very happy camper. 

But now - reality. Tomorrow I'm flying to Ottawa to visit my dear Aunt Do, who at 97 still lives alone. I'm spending till Sunday with her, to take her shopping and to dinner and to keep her company. I never want to go to Ottawa - it's freezing cold and boring and I stay in a small Airbnb room and miss my life - but I'm always happy to see my oldest remaining relative, who has stories to tell. 

Today, Matt Lauer and Garrison Keillor - what the hell? Some of this is going too far, small stupid missteps long ago. Some of these events should not cause these men to lose their jobs while an insane abusive cretin still works in the White House. What a crazy time we live in. Ah well - for the next few days, I will be out of touch in a very hot living room, moving slowly.

Just to depress you ... from a British newspaper in 1930.

plugged-in shoes

My daughter is getting her Christmas tree today - it's November! I usually get mine, reluctantly, a week before the big day. There's a lot of Bah, Humbug around here, as there is not across town, where two small boys are waiting to begin opening their Advent calendars. I went to the mall a few days ago - before Black Friday, of course, when the place went insane - to buy what Eli wants for Christmas - shoes. Not just any shoes, of course - shoes that have a course of lights around the sole that light up in different colours. They cost $89 and you have to charge them with a charger, like a cellphone. I came home and plugged my grandson's shoes into my computer.

How to explain THAT to my father, who died in 1988?

However, just read a great article on how the western world is returning to analog, as opposed to digital. Books made of paper, records made of vinyl, typewriters - hooray! One year I'll get Eli a record player for Christmas. But not quite yet. I'm going over this afternoon to help decorate the tree, and then I'll go home before they get immersed in the Grey Cup. Lots of football fans in that house. And yet some of them are related closely to me.

Had lunch Thursday with three dear friends from the Y - Paul, friend since I started there in 1990, Carole, the gazelle who teaches my fave class, and Godana, just-retired Y employee, an Ethiopian who once coached an Olympic marathon runner. Carole, Paul and I wanted to touch base with this beautiful man, to be sure he doesn't disappear from our lives. We ate at Shalom, a new Ethiopian restaurant on Parliament Street - a big platter of food in the centre of the table that we ate with injera - a pancake-like bread full of holes. Godana showed us just how to do it. It was wonderful.

Teaching is over for the term. Six weeks off, which also means six weeks with no teaching income. But already, the calendar is pretty full. I emailed a personal essay to a magazine this week, which I haven't done for years. Time for work, time for fitness, time to sort out the chaos in the office and the basement - and time to sit around staring at the garden as it shuts itself down. For now.

Life is full of such promise, isn't it?

inspired by Suzuki

"I've been waiting for a new post, Miss Lazypants," wrote my friend Chris. Jeez! Take a few days off from blogging and they're on your case.

Chugging along here. Keeping busy. Went to the symphony Saturday night to hear Canadian pianist Angela Hewitt play Bach and Mozart piano concertos, conducting the symphony at the same time. My parents used to go see her in Ottawa in the seventies and admired her enormously, and so do I. She's lithe and graceful with hands that move at lightning speed; she effortlessly commanded that vast beautiful room. The music was a banquet. (Photo below before it started.)

On Sunday I took Sam, his girlfriend Amy and Wayson to dinner at the Pearl Court, the Gerrard street restaurant that's Wayson's mainstay. They know him like family there and chatter in Cantonese which he speaks haltingly but impressively nonetheless. And then back for "The Durrells in Corfu" which Sam had taught me how to PVR - save on the TV. Barely understood how but managed to find and replay it, to the delight of my older friend and me. The young ones had gone by then. The Durrells in Corfu definitely not their kind of show.

On Monday, a huge treat: I went to hear David Suzuki speak as a guest of Ryerson's Chang School, the school of continuing studies where I teach. He's an extraordinary speaker, fiery, funny, his speech apocalyptic yet warm with personal asides and details about his own life. He showed that we have known since the seventies about the perils of climate change and yet our western world has done nothing. Harper is his great villain - "He should be in jail," he said, and I agree. He spoke of how happy he was when Trudeau was elected, immediately dealing with gender parity in cabinet and setting off for the Paris climate accord. But, unfortunately, "He gets a big fat zero for action."

The problem, he said, is that the changes needed to save our species from extinction are longterm, and politicians simply want to be re-elected and are unwilling to take the courageous risk of making them. Also, they're in thrall to corporations. He said: Where is the place for the sacred in our society? We value all the wrong things. We value the economy, the market – created by human beings. We do not value the things that keep us alive: air, water, the good soil and sunlight that produce our food. Earth air fire and water – sacred to First Nations people, meaningless to us.

We must be warriors for the coming generations. No fossil fuels, he said. Eat locally and seasonally. Change the electoral system. We need to get involved in the electoral process and elect responsible politicians. And STAY PUT, he said. Put down roots. 

I lined up to buy his new book, but more, to have a few moments to chat. It's a great thrill that because he and my father were best friends, that friendship continues with me today. I left inspired and moved, thinking about my footprint on the earth. I've tried to be a good ecological citizen, only had two children, no car, not wasting food, buying second hand, staying put and putting down roots. But - I travel a lot. 

Monday night and this afternoon, the end of my teaching term at the universities. Both were spectacular this term. Have I said that before? The Ryerson class was enormous and yet fabulous; the U of T class was much smaller and also fabulous. At the last class, nice words were said and gifts were given to Teach - flowers and wine, two of my fave things. I hope you don't mind if I reprint a few of the nice things. A friend noted that I "post a lot of self-congratulatory stuff" on my blog. And it's true. I wrote back that it's because I'm advertising my wares - showing people what my teaching means, in the hopes of attracting more customers. But perhaps it's also because I'm really conceited.

I do not think a class (group of total strangers) comes together like that sharing their most vulnerable selves unless they feel safe and respected and considered -- and you as the teacher and fearless leader did that for all of us. I looked forward to your class every week and I shall miss it dearly. I am hopeful that the journey has just begun and that writing will become an important part of my life going forward.

My friends and family commented  that it was obvious my writing course was doing me good. A lighter, more content version of myself. Managing better with my peaks and valleys.............. (mostly valleys). I'm on to something with the writing and think it will keep me in the sane category of life, so I'll continue.

Best of all, in one class was a doctor whose brother recently died of cancer, leaving her so bereft, she was unable to do her job and had to take time off. She told us the class had renewed her love for humanity, and she was going back to work. And a woman in her eighties read us a story today about having a personal article published in the newspaper a long time ago when she was 18; her father flew into a rage when he read it, telling her to keep her "lunatic rantings" to herself. Which she has done all her life, writing in diaries, many letters, in local newspapers, but never committing to writing until now. And now, she said, her face bright with joy, I want to start and hope it is not too late. I told her about Diana Athill with her first best-seller at 92 and her next book out at 98. Never too late, I said, but don't delay. The same for all of us - don't delay.

Of course, good advice for Teach too, who is dallying as always. A student asked me, with all I do, how do I have time to write, and the correct answer is, really, I don't.

the King streetcar miracle

Went across town at rush hour yesterday on the King streetcar, which whizzed along like a miracle. Amazing - an enlightened new policy in this town, to make it illegal to drive for more than one block on King Street between Jarvis and Bathurst. Imagine, inconveniencing cars to prioritize streetcars. In Toronto, where our last idiot mayor trumpeted "The war on the car is over!"

I was so happy with my ride, both there and back, that I wrote to congratulate the mayor this morning, telling him I'm warming to him. Not too much, but some.

I was on my way to Eli's school in Parkdale; it's parent-teacher interview time, so I was to keep Eli busy while Anna talked to his teacher. It's a most wonderful school with a huge percentage of immigrant children particularly from Tibet, a warm, warm feeling, and the most gorgeous school library I've ever seen. Just fabulous. There was a book fair going on, so before my family got there, I bought some books, including "Tell me about sex, Grandma." Yes. It's a wonderful book which isn't about the birds and the bees but about feeling good about being who you are and not allowing anyone to do anything you don't want. Very important to have lying around for a discussion one day. Not quite yet.

Anyway, I loved the school and with the teacher's permission, copied down the names of Eli's classmates. Here they are:

Andraya, Amara, Akkeim, Adam, Arianna, Abdulrahman, Dasel, Drugmo, Keira, Ethan, Emily, Jigme, Julian, Karma Tashi, Karma Rapten, Matthew, Marloes, Principe, Stacy, Serwoe, Phensem, Dolkar, Choezin, Veronica, Zaira, Zahra.

How's that for multicultural?

And then at Anna's, I played hide and go seek with the boys. Now that's pleasure, standing behind a door waiting, and then they fling it back and I roar and they shriek and we all laugh and Ben says, "Again, Glamma, again." 

Had a crisis in the night - besides back pain, I realized I can't go on living in this vast house forever. Am starting again to think about alternatives. The problem is that I want to live forever in Cabbagetown, but there just aren't many houses in Cabbagetown. I will check out what's happening in Regent Park, which may be crowded and noisy. Or I could renovate this house to make another apartment upstairs. Suggestions welcome.

SponsorLand

The days are grey, slate grey and cool, my huge maple tree at the front showering yellow leaves, the front path thick with them. It's still warm enough to ride the bike, but I miss the sun.

To warm my day and my heart, I just received this from a student at Ryerson who cannot make the last class of term next week:

I just wanted to thank you for the truly wonderful experience of your writing class. I signed up last minute and on a lark, not really sure what I was doing or why. It was the very best thing I did this fall.

I loved every minute of it. I felt connected to my classmates. I loved hearing their stories and listening to their styles. I learned so much from you and from them. I learned a lot about myself, too. Thank you again for a wonderful class and experience.

As I just wrote to her, during the last class, she read such a well-written and moving piece of work, the air in the room changed. We always know when someone is sharing a vital truth. 

Speaking of vital truths, there was a moment in the English conversation group yesterday morning, when one of the women, who's usually quiet and shy, began to speak. She told us in her hesitant English that she had gone to the Gerrard mall with two of her sons to buy them winter clothes - and then at their insistence had taken them to the McDonalds in the mall "for fries." We all laughed. Kids, even Bengali kids who at home are fed pakoras, samosas, biryani, and coconut rice - the cooking of which we discussed at such length yesterday that I was hungry - love fries. I was proud of my new friend who wanted to share that moment of normalcy and had the courage to utter a bunch of English sentences in a row, out loud. 

I was thinking of the group when I watched a documentary on TVO last night, "SponsorLand"; one of the producers is Noah Bingham, the son of my neighbours and good friends Jack and Gretchen. It's about a group of people in the small town of Picton in Prince Edward County who sponsor a Syrian family with 11 children - what happens when they arrive, how they integrate, or not, into small town Canadian life. Beautifully shot, intimate, thoughtful - and I have to say, how open, decent and kind they all are, both the sponsors and the immigrants. If only bigots could be forced to see it. It's available online; please take a look. 

And now - into this grey day. Incidentally, the back pain went away and came back, again so fierce that I took two Advils in the night. I guess it's the flaw in my carpet, that and the lack of sun, and the political situation, the vicious morons loose in the world. It's good to be reminded of human kindness.

Loving Vincent, saying no to Beth

Yesterday I went for a long walk on the Don Valley trail with my old friend Marilyn Biderman, who has made a very successful mid-life career change, from working as a foreign rights manager in a big publishing company to, after being brutally downsized, setting up her own literary agency and now working as an agent in one of the biggest literary agencies in Toronto. She's a source of great wisdom for an outsider like myself. She told me the first question a prospective author will be asked by a publisher or agent is: How big is your social network platform? Apparently having thousands of Twitter followers is not enough. Deeply discouraging. I have seven Twitter followers, I think, maybe not even that because I never tweet, have always thought a blog was enough. Not. She told me other facts that were deeply discouraging about how hard it is to sell memoir.

This morning I heard back from another agent friend to whom I'd sent a query and the first 50 pages of my book. After talking to Marilyn, I was not surprised to read this:
I read and really enjoyed your submission. You’ve got such a distinctive voice and a dry sense of (impeccably paced) humour. It’s impossible not to relate to this young woman as she makes her way out of a thorny nest and out into the world.  This being said, personal memoir, even well written, is a tough sell, more so when it’s without a big or more delineated hook. So regrettably, I don’t think I can take it on.

A hook, a hook, my kingdom for a big delineated hook. Ah well. That's the biz. Time to send it somewhere else.

Even before this, I've been kept awake two nights in a row with serious pain on one side of my back - a burning ache. No idea where it came from or what it is, but I'm off to Shopper's to get painkillers and ask the druggist if he has any idea. Must relax back. Tension will make it worse.

On Saturday afternoon, I went down to TIFF to meet Annie and see Agnes Varda's Faces/Places. It occurred to me that we should book in advance, and then I thought, who'll want to see an obscure French film in the middle of a cold Saturday afternoon? I'm such a geek that recently, when I decided to see California Typewriter, I bought my ticket in advance because I was so sure it would be sold out - and there were five people in the cinema besides me.

This time, however, wrong - I got there half an hour early to buy tickets, and the showing was already sold out. Who knew? Annie and I saved the day; we went to see Loving Vincent instead, an extraordinary work of art about the life and death of Vincent Van Gogh. It was shot with - of course - great British actors and then, frame by frame, painted over in Van Gogh's thick brushstrokes by 100 visual artists - so it's like seeing the whole world from Vincent's eyes, inside his paintings. It is of course the tragic story of a magnificent tormented genius misunderstood and neglected in his time, except for a great hero, his brother Theo who kept him alive. Vincent was not only a superb painter but a wonderful letter writer, constantly detailing his life and work for his brother and other correspondents. A beautiful experience in the cinema. Don't miss it.

And now, this:

NEWS IN BRIEF

Entirety Of Hollywood Film Industry Replaced With 40,000 Christopher Plummers

Thursday 3:00pm

SEE MORE: ENTERTAINMENT

LOS ANGELES—In the wake of numerous sexual misconduct allegations against prominent figures in Hollywood, the entire film industry will reportedly be replaced by 40,000 Christopher Plummers, sources said Friday. “Going forward, veteran actor Christopher Plummer will write, direct, and star in every movie we make and is currently working with us to reshoot hundreds of features already in production,” said studio executive Christopher Plummer, adding that the entire history of film would eventually be altered with Christopher Plummers swapped in for the roles and also feature revised credits to reflect the fact that Christopher Plummers performed every behind-the-scenes task. “We’ve got Christopher Plummers serving as sound designers, foley artists, background extras, hair and makeup, key grips, and even craft services. To be honest, this was long overdue.” At press time, Plummer had been forced to resign after allegations of sexual harassment from five other Christopher Plummers surfaced.

Remembering Marion

Remembrance - my father who was in the U.S. Army MASH units in the last year of WW2, his brother Edgar a radio operator in the U.S. airforce, my mother in the British Land Army and at Bletchley Park. We thank you and your compatriots for all you did to save the world from Fascism. Glad none of you is here to see the state of the world today. But then - after last Tuesday's elections in the U.S. - there's hope again. Up and down we go.

But in honour of remembering, here's a photograph that means a great deal. My Washington cousin gave me this shot I'd never seen before of my British grandmother Marion Edith Alice Bates at age 18 or so during WW1. The photo was damaged so I had it repaired and enlarged. Marion had just become a teacher, her thick auburn hair tied behind her neck with a bow - and look at that tiny waist! I see so many of her descendants in her face, including both my children, my brother, and me. I have her thin shoulders, too, though have not, have never had, that waist. Soon she'd marry my grandfather Percy Harold Leadbeater, 100% not the right man for her, a dry stick who was lucky to marry this great beauty. However, we're all glad she did, because here we are.

So in remembrance of Marion, a supply teacher and great cook in a thatched cottage in a village, growing her own fruit and vegetables, making her own bread, sewing her own clothes and those of her 3 daughters, and later a proud, delicate grandmother to her 4 grandchildren - I honour and remember you today. I'm wearing the ring you gave my mother and she gave me, a gift from your best friend Hattie Cumberpatch, and the watercolour you did of the cottage where you raised your family, where my mother was born, is in my office. So you are always with me.

a student's piece for Remembrance Day

A few weeks ago, a student at Ryerson wrote a piece for class about how her father, a veteran, was mistreated on Remembrance Day by a store. Send it to the Globe, I advised, and told the class, whenever they have an essay relating to a specific holiday, they should send it in. Already, her piece has appeared. She has never been published before and is thrilled. And I am thrilled for her.
https://beta.theglobeandmail.com/life/facts-and-arguments/my-dad-made-sacrifices-for-our-country-so-why-did-his-favourite-big-box-store-disrespecthim/article36861612/?click=sf_globefb

With all these reports of sexual assault pouring in, including from decades ago, I'm grateful that as far as I can recall, I have never sexually assaulted anyone. I don't think anyone from my past is going to stand up and point a finger. In fact, I could point a finger or two myself, but I won't, that was many many years ago when I was young and stupid and spent too long at the bar.

But I love how Samantha Bee put it, with her usual forcefulness. "Here's how I do it, guys," she said. (I paraphrase.) "I get up in the morning, get dressed, go to work, and I don't masturbate in front of my staff."

At today's conversation group, the local library's outreach coordinator came to talk to us about the library and to make sure all the women have library cards. He told us about the library's programs - so many! It's like a community centre - parenting, literacy, the Lego club, the Bookmobile, Leading to Reading, home delivery for the non-mobile, of course Storytime for young ones, another conversation circle, puppet shows, teen youth groups - it's incredible. Even "Why make a will?," coming up in a few weeks - we had to explain "a will" to the women. So impressed with our library system. There are 100 libraries in Toronto - the goal, one every 1.5 kilometres. Fabulous.

Yesterday's treat - I was killing time on Bloor Street between class at U of T and a non-fiction conference meeting nearby, strolling along with the shoppers, when I heard a high clear voice of unearthly beauty - a young man standing at the corner of Bloor and Bay, singing. "For Tuition," said his sign. He sang "Ave Maria" and I stood stock still and relished. I gave him $10 and he gave me his card. Ian Sabourin, a counter tenor. Thank you, Ian, I said, for such beauty in the midst of the consumer madness of Bloor Street. When I left, he was being hassled by a First Nations man who wanted to beg on the same corner. Valuable real estate. Give him a listen - he's stunning, vocally and - let's be frank - physically. https://www.iansabourin.com/

And then, last night, watching the second half of the doc on Jann Wenner's Rolling Stone on HBO - four hours of the history of my generation, music, politics, revolution. Wonderful.

Democrats won in the States including the first transgender woman ever! And the Bloor Street bike lanes are permanent. At last, some good news. We could use some. It's getting cold here.

P.S. This is what a successful writer's life looks like. Sigh. Just a tiny bit jealous.

So True's truths

I'm sure you've heard this before - but yesterday felt like a plateau in my life, a place of peace I've spent 67 years climbing to, an achievement, yes, to be proud of. So I'll celebrate with you.

So True was remarkable. We'd had a big problem - one of the eight pieces for the event turned out, at Thursday's rehearsal, to be confusing; it was my fault, choosing a new writer with a quirky style that in the end, didn't work for reading aloud. We tried to fix the piece but could not, so with only a day to go were one reader short, when I came up with an idea - to remember and honour Gord Downie by reading a piece by a talented student of mine who'd also died far too young of a brain tumour. Only months before she died, she was writing powerful, moving pieces for class, and I'd saved the last and best one, "The Night Bus." Another longterm student, Sam, agreed at the last minute to read it, and in a flurry of emails, we mended the hole in the program.

This time, as our MC Jason said, it felt as if we know how to do this; those who've read before were relaxed and comfortable on stage, and even those who were new did beautifully. There was a good mix of ages and styles, though I wish as always for more diversity - but that's a problem of the genre and the demographic attending my classes. The place was packed - over 70 people - and the audience reaction was rapturous. One reader had a group of dog-walker friends who came to hear her read in the first half and intended to leave at the intermission, to go to dinner. Instead, she said, they stayed for the whole thing and were in tears at the end.

From those who read:

it's just goddam inspiring -- I want to keep coming, to keep writing -- you all, all of you who presented today -- you've given me hope and inspiration. This particular afternoon at SO TRUE will stay with me forever!

Thanks to all for sharing your truths so eloquently and with such passion...I left buzzing, proud to be in such company.

Ah the truths! So refreshing. Even the sad stuff - it's real - and it makes you feel alive. We need more truths in today's world - less hate and more love. And more Beth! Thanks for all you do, you make the world a more inspiring and interesting place to be :) I'll be submitting a piece for your next show - I am addicted.

And from my writer friend Isabel Huggan, who could only stay for the first half and whom I asked to give me a critique:

As for critique - heaps of praise on all four I heard, each sequence polished, with constant forward movement and not too much explanatory detail slowing things down... each one so different and written and spoken exactly according to the "type" of true-story-memoir it was, the voices were all so individual, as unique as the experiences. A great crowd you get there, I can imagine this scene expanding -- but could you handle that? 

No. We want to keep it just as it is - 70 plus people in this warm, comfortable room. No desire to get bigger - it's enough work as it is.

Wayson was there with me, taking money at the door; afterward, at home, I pulled spaghetti sauce from the freezer to make us dinner, grateful for his company - another time it's hard to be single is after an achievement, when there's no one else to witness it. Wayson is my witness. We watched "The Durrells in Corfu," the best yet, a hilarious series, and at 9, simultaneously, a doc about conjoined twins in B.C. and "Poldark." 

And while we watched, I received a text from my son. I'd given him and his girlfriend Amy an early Xmas present - tickets to the last matinee of "Guys and Dolls" at Stratford, morning bus tickets there and late train tickets back. He'd arranged to have dinner after the show with dear family friends who've known him since he was a baby. The weather was forecast to be hideous, thunderstorms all day, and I was concerned they'd have a terrible time - these 30 somethings, especially Sam an aficionado of action and horror films, wouldn't necessarily enjoy a dated musical written in 1950. In the rain. 

Sam wrote, from the train home, "Mom, what a truly wonderful day. We had a great lunch and walked by the river. Played Pooh sticks (Amy cheated) and that was all before seeing the most wonderful musical. Tom and Anna fed us a wonderful meal and are just amazing. Love you." 

Pooh sticks, from one of the Winnie the Pooh books. When the kids were small, whenever we went for a walk over a bridge, we played Pooh sticks, throwing sticks in one side and waiting excitedly to see whose came out first on the other.

That moment - sitting on the sofa with my beloved friend, full of my homemade spaghetti sauce made with MY OWN BASIL, GARLIC, AND TOMATOES, with the success of So True that afternoon, and my son's happiness - it was good, my friends. 

I hesitate to write it down, because we know life - just around the corner, who knows? Up down up down up. Earlier that day, as I walked home from the Y, I stood watching the Remembrance Day parade down Jarvis Street, Canadian army men and women marching to honour those who've died. The world is particularly fragile right now. 

But right then, last night on the sofa, yes, I thought. Thank you.

P.S. Here's what's missing from this charming picture: a work ethic that has me WORKING on my next writing project instead of spending the morning going over past successes on the blog. Missing! Failure! A profound lack. 

Just in case I am feeling too proud of myself.

Love is ... California Typewriter

Sheer joy - a documentary that brought tears to my eyes and made me laugh out loud several times: California Typewriter, about the weird band of retrograde eccentrics who still use and love and collect typewriters. And what a bunch - Tom Hanks, writers Sam Shepherd and David McCullough and musician John Mayer, who speak about the visceral pleasure of striking the keys and preserving work on paper; an amazing artist, Jeremy Mayer, who makes sculptures out of parts; the Boston Typewriter Orchestra, who, yes, make music with theirs, and a very sweet, hapless Canadian who is reliving his halcyon childhood with his typewriter collection, searching for one in particular, the oldest and rarest. And the centrepiece of the film, the shop in California of that name which gathers, sells, repairs, and struggles to survive.

What's interesting is that there's barely a woman in the film. This is a world almost entirely male - the collectors, the artists still using these machines. Why is that? Perhaps the typewriter is too associated with one of the only jobs a woman in the old days could get, dead-end, a trap. And yet the history segments of the film show that typing opened up the wide business world to women, gave them better paying jobs than factory work or even teaching.

But mostly - the film celebrates writers, their process, choosing the right tools to transmute the words from the brain to the page. It's a long film, too long, the filmmaker does not want to let his lovely people go, and I understand why. Still, I loved every minute. I have two very old Royal ones myself, and perhaps need to buy one I can actually use. Stay tuned. Highly recommended.

This morning I Googled myself - because I'm that sort of narcissist - and to my surprise, found this photo on the website for Bikestock, a celebration of bicycles I went to a few years ago. Too bad I wasn't there with Marilyn, my current beautiful bike, but this sleek old one I bought on Craigslist is still nice. Speaking of 19th century technology that still works better than anything ...

After much nagging from all my children and friends, I wear a helmet more regularly now. Hate it - itchy, heavy, ugly - but there are so many bad drivers in Toronto, and shit happens. Still, I much prefer to be without, even with risk and windy fluffhead.

Wayson came for supper yesterday, hobbling more slowly with a bigger cane - I am sad to see him physically diminished, though his sense of humour remains as sharp as ever. We watched some of "Present Laughter" on PBS and then Bill Maher, more depressing about ISIS and the future than I'd thought imaginable. And tonight and all tomorrow, apparently, torrential rain. Still - friendship, family, love. Falling leaves.

meeting Miriam and Avi Hoffman

A lovely day - cascades of red and yellow leaves, sun, blue sky. Spent the morning with John, winterizing - putting away cushions and sun umbrellas, covering chairs and tables with a tarp, pulling out the remnants of plants, covering the barbecue and the air conditioner that I used twice this summer. The cold is on its way. But not yet - mild out there, still. I learned from friend Chris's blog that it snowed on Gabriola Island yesterday - and here, people were out in shorts.

A grand event Wednesday night - dinner with Michael Shore, yet another first cousin once removed whom I hardly know, an actor who has recently moved to Toronto, and with Avi and Miriam Hoffman, theatrical son and mother formerly from New York now from Florida, who were in town to speak in Yiddish about the Yiddish theatre. I could not attend the event but through Michael, who was in the recent Yiddish Death of a Salesman starring Avi, I got in touch with them to offer to give them my book. Hence, dinner together. Avi is an interesting man with lots of great ideas, but Miriam is a powerhouse. How I enjoyed speaking with her. A mere 81 and as sharp as a teenager, she'd just returned from speaking in Prague and a separate trip to Bucharest. She taught Yiddish for decades at Columbia, has written a textbook about the language, has had many plays performed and just finished a memoir that you can be sure I'll order when it appears.
https://www.amazon.com/Breed-Apart-Professor-Miriam-Hoffman/dp/0999336509/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1505412387&sr=8-1&keywords=a+breed+apart+hoffman
She was born in Siberia, walked across Russia with her family to escape, her father-in-law survived Auschwitz - oh the woman has stories to tell. She reminded me of my American grandmother - my powerful roots, on one side. But the other, British side is so very different. Miriam and Avi wanted a commitment to Jewishness from me, but I'm afraid I cannot give it. I'm just not anything official, except a Cabbagetowner.

Wednesday night, big news, I slept through the night - went to bed at midnight after a comedian binge - John Oliver, Sam Bee, Trevor Noah - and woke at 7.30 a.m. That almost never happens, and what a difference it makes - I was at my desk by 8.30 and had a productive day. Usually I wake in the middle of the night to fret and ponder. Hours pass. What a waste of time! I think, furious, and then sleep late and the morning vanishes. My life would have been so much more productive, I think to myself, if I'd not had insomnia. But then - I would not be myself if I did not have insomnia. I'd be some other, more confident, less introspective and neurotic human being, someone like my daughter, who just goes to bed and falls asleep. I've got to accept that's not how I roll.

I roll by making lists at 3.30 a.m., as I did again this morning. C'est la vie.

And - Paul McCartney and his beautiful daughters Mary and Stella have created a short film about saving the planet by not eating meat one day a week. Meat-free Mondays - we can do that. For you, my beloved Macca, easy.
Watch 'One Day a Week' by clicking HERE!